


Pentimento

by InoruMarufuji



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: (Again I try), (i try), Angst, Art obsession, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Hallucinations, Horror Elements, Implied/Referenced Character Death, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Lee Minho | Lee Know is Whipped, M/M, Minor Violence, Mystery, No I'm not projecting on Jeongin thank you for asking, Paranoia, Paranormal, Past Character Death, Past Murder, Revenge, Writer!Minho, Yang Jeongin | I.N is Whipped, Yang Jeongin | I.N-centric, art student!jeongin, minor fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28963923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InoruMarufuji/pseuds/InoruMarufuji
Summary: Jeongin is absolutely obsessed with art and regularly buys new paintings for the apartment he shares with his boyfriend Minho.His newest acquisition, a depiction of a dark castle on a hill, was simply supposed to be one of many, though he quickly finds out there is something more mysterious and dangerous lurking beneath the paint.
Relationships: Lee Minho | Lee Know/Yang Jeongin | I.N
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24
Collections: AGIBBANG FEST





	Pentimento

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #0106
> 
> *Pentimento: The presence or emergence of earlier images, forms or strokes that have been changed and painted over.
> 
> Thank you to both the prompter and the mod for making it possible for me to write this fic! I had a lot of fun with my prompt and I hope the final product won’t disappoint!

_In every work of art, the artist himself is present._

A quote Jeongin could recite by heart, having practically been raised with a paintbrush in his hand and colorful worlds in his head the moment he had chosen the tube of acrylic paint for his first birthday.

Growing up, he had dedicated nearly every moment of undisturbed tranquility to drawing up doodles and rough sketches, later even simple oil or watercolor paintings.

Nonetheless, with every piece that was finished and perfected with the stroke of a brush or the scribble of a pencil, Jeongin felt as if he was pouring some part of himself into his works, some reflection of what he was and what he achieved to be spread out on the canvas in front of him.

None of his creations were worth any more or less than the others, for the importance of their existence was given to them with their uniqueness and the feelings poured into them.

Art in itself was a blessing, limitless and unbound in the way it expressed its message to the world through mere images, a universal language taught and interpreted in much the same way as music or dance was.

Understood by a deep, instinctive part of the mind and yet never seeming to convey the same thing to a group of different people.

It was a fascinating journey through the artist's thought, grasping for the truth of what the depiction meant to both the artist and the viewer.

It was human nature, a desperate desire that had kept Jeongin coming back to a blank canvas over and over throughout the years, needing to materialize those parts of his soul that escaped the concept of spoken or organic.

It was the eternal quest to define who he was, no clear answer coming to him unless he indulged in the act of bringing the knot of emotion, memory and sensation to the surface of whatever material he had chosen to draw on this time.

Jeongin loved art.

It was a reliable constant all throughout his childhood and early life, sneaking its way into every application, essay or analysis he wrote, being an unavoidable subject of talk whenever he went beyond the _Hello, how are you? s_ tage with people.

He probably wouldn't be able to change it even if he tried, for art had shaped and comforted him, turned his messy piles of emotions into something beautiful, something worth looking at that inspired him to improve himself every single day.

That same kind of deep admiration was present not only when he gazed at his own works, but also when he came across another artist's creation, enriching and nurturing his soul in a way that little else would ever be able to.

As with all things in life, he did have preferences within the art he enjoyed, some of it simply intriguing, some of it encouraging him to think about the subject matter and the feelings conveyed to him for days and some of it so downright gorgeous and meaningful that he had no choice but to purchase whatever painting caught his eye.

It had never been a problem to his parents back when he had still lived at home, it had never been a problem to his boyfriend when they had finally moved together after two years and it certainly had never been a problem to himself.

But this time was different.

Because this time, the _painting_ he brought into their home was different.

“You got another one?”

Minho chuckled to himself as he signed for the package their mailman had brought, the general shape and weight letting him know in an instant that Jeongin had bought another painting online, probably even with Minho's own credit card again.

The younger tended to be sneaky with his shopping, picking out paintings in secret when Minho wasn't around, keeping low until they arrived and then happily snatching them from him the moment the door closed to hang them anywhere where there was space left.

Their shared apartment was a mess of different paintings and art styles, Impressionism meeting Avant-garde and Futurism in the hallway, Classicism hanging side by side with Pointillism in their living room, Surrealism dominating their kitchen and all other kinds of abstract art lining the wall next to the staircase.

Upstairs wasn't any different, though Minho lacked the artistic language to describe the variety of works that greeted him whenever he went anywhere in their home, a flaw he was regularly reprimanded for by his art-loving boyfriend.

Because really, how could he not know the name of that art style that focused on exaggerated and dramatic motions when it was the first thing he saw every morning when he opened their bedroom door?

How could he pass those simplistic paintings on the wall next to the bathroom, the ones where a single object was the focus of the work, without remembering what they were called?

Minho tried, he really did try, to keep up with Jeongin's ever-growing collection of epochs and eras, both because he found himself fascinated by some of these pieces as well and because Jeongin's eyes sparkled so endearingly whenever he went into a long rant about his favorite artists, gesturing wildly and getting so excited that it conjured a smile on Minho's face.

So even if their apartment was a bit too much like a museum for Minho's tastes, he happily indulged his boyfriend's hobby as long as it meant he could keep him smiling.

Accepting the package, he gave a nod to the mailman before turning around, catching Jeongin peeking down from the top of the staircase with a tired Soonie in his arms, seeming to positively vibrate from the joy of having gotten another painting.

It was cute.

“Hyung, I know just the place to hang this!”

He disappeared around the corner again without even waiting for Minho, taking off towards their bedroom while Soonie let out a startled meow at the boy's enthusiasm.

Minho chuckled once more, the sound of which was fond and affectionate as he hurried upstairs and after Jeongin, careful to mauneuver his fragile charge around anything that might damage it, including the sharp edges of their staircase.

He hadn't actually seen what his boyfriend had bought this time, though he seldom did in the first place anyway, so he was curious which art style he would be graced with this time, which motif he was going to see added to their home.

Most of all, he wanted to see Jeongin obsess over his newest addition with stars in his eyes that rivaled those of the crispy clear night sky Minho could sometimes see from the bedroom when the city's lights were dimmed and the air carried solely a sense of peaceful tranquility that was too hard to grasp during the day.

He was glad they had a balcony to indulge in the magic whenever it happened, the countless memories of the two of them standing in the chilly breeze with a blanket over their shoulders, trying to point out all those precious constellations while smiling brightly forever stored away in his mind.

Minho could say he was completely satisfied with his life as it was now, and thinking about the simple ring tucked away in his bedside drawer, just waiting for an opportune time to be brought out so he could say the magic words, only served to convince him that the future ahead of him would be brilliant.

The bedroom door was open when Minho got there, having to pay attention not to stumble over Soonie who found it to be a great idea to graze along her owner's legs over and over, but thankfully, he wasn't struggling for long.

His grace was given to him in the form of Jeongin taking the package from him, depositing it on his bed before tearing it open, equal parts impatient and anticipating holding the painting in his hands.

There was already a blank spot on their anthracite wall, right between a work of Monet's that depicted waterlilies under a Japanese bridge and a painting of sunflowers, the motif simple as much as it was representative of their thriving relationship.

It was probably Minho's favorite out of all the artworks they had on this floor, so he was glad Jeongin had chosen to take down a different painting to make space for his newest acquisition.

“ _Pathway of Flowers_ can go into the living room”, he decided, briefly glancing at the picture in question as if to measure where it would fit on their already full wall.

Realistically, it didn't fit _anywhere_ , but Jeongin always made it work one way or another.

“I just really wanted to have this one in the bedroom.”

“Why, what's so special about it?”

With these types of questions, it was usually hit or miss, with Jeongin either dissolving into a full blown rant on why every painting was special or him just straight up ignoring Minho, too absorbed into whatever he was doing at the time to ponder the question much.

In this case, it seemed to be the latter possibility as the younger fought with the triple packaging consisting of cardboard, bubble wrap and palette wrap, mindlessly tossing the trash on the floor and providing Soonie with a source of entertainment.

Minho let her be, instead wrapping his arms around his boyfriend's waist and hooking his chin over Jeongin's shoulder to watch him work, nimble fingers freeing the rather sinister looking painting with all the care, precision and attentiveness of a true artist.

At first sight, it really didn't seem particularly extraordinary, save for the oddly dark and dreary choice of color, greys, dark blues and black dominating the canvas.

The actual depiction was of a medieval style castle on a hill, a mosaic of stones in varying sizes and shapes with dark and gaping windows, black voids that seemed capable of sucking someone in.

There were about a dozen of them, splattered symetrically over the front of the castle, each with its own marble balcony and incredibly detailed, embroidered patterns on the curtains.

Intimidating, pointed towers protruded from the castle, looming over the jaggy, rocky terrain and the few trees that populated it, and the entire structure overlooked a city in the distance, merely a few faint lights giving away that it was inhabited.

The sky in the painting was the darkest shade of cloudy grey Minho could imagine, depressing and heavy looking as it hung over the imposing castle like a cruel, imminent omen, something about it instantly unsettling him, making him tighten his grip on Jeongin.

There was an inherently eerie, foreboding vibe about the painting in general, an array of vague strokes crossing over the canvas, the shape of _something_ shimmering beneath the surface of fresh paint, familiar and at the same time hauntingly foreign.

It left him paranoid, restless, his scrutinizing gaze unable to pinpoint the reason for the shiver that ran down his spine.

Bad vibes.

“It's a pentimento”, Jeongin suddenly explained, seemingly having picked up on Minho's unease like he so often did.

Minho adored that his boyfriend was so perceptive to his feelings, always knowing what to say to make it better – or even just speaking at all, his sweet, honey-like voice soothing some part of his soul.

“It means that there are earlier strokes and images that have been painted over. It might look weird or _wrong_ at first glance, but you'll get used to it.”

Minho gave an understanding, affirming hum, his irrational agitation diminishing a little with the reasoning as he examined the painting a second longer, trying to think of what the artist might have painted before and why they had ultimately settled for such a dark design.

It was hardly relevant, but it kept his mind occupied enough to ignore the way his guts twisted when Jeongin moved to hang the painting on the wall, Minho still attached securely to his back.

He didn't like this artwork.

It wasn't the first time he had felt distaste curling up inside of him at the prospect of looking at a certain motif practically every day, simply because tastes were different and it wasn't a secret that Jeongin did what he wanted when it came to picking out paintings, but this was something else entirely.

He couldn't imagine himself developing any affinity for this one at all, not like he had done for some of the works around the apartment, yet he refrained from telling Jeongin this, not wanting his boyfriend's mood to take a downer.

Maybe he could bring the topic up another time.

Or maybe he _would_ get used to having this ominous painting around him, who knew.

It was just a painting after all. Nothing to worry about.

“Innie, should we get takeout?”, he suddenly heard himself mumble, his mind deciding to change gears entirely, tuning out the canvas in front of him in favor of focusing on Jeongin's soft, newly dyed hair and the pleasant smell of his cologne that invaded Minho's senses. “I don't feel like cooking today.”

“When do you ever?”, Jeongin snorted, briefly looking over his shoulder to reveal the cheeky glimmer in his eyes, a challenge posed to Minho to try and prove him wrong.

Which he really couldn't.

Being in the middle of a grand action scene for his next novel had him hunched over his outline for days on end, so he had to admit he had neglected cooking and cleaning duties around the apartment for a while now.

Jeongin understood, of course he did, but that didn't mean he should let that habit get the better of him.

Minho muttered something fake offended in reply to the question, the words incomprehensible even to his own ears, before he detached himself from Jeongin, feeling properly called out and wanting to make it up to his boyfriend.

“Alright, alright, I'll get to it. Give me thirty minutes.”

Even without seeing the younger's face, he was pretty sure Jeongin was grinning to himself as he finished hanging the painting up, making sure it was straight.

Come to think of it, their paintings were possibly the only straight thing in this apartment at all.

“Thanks! Love you, hyung.”

Minho grimaced, but couldn't suppress the fond smile slipping on his face as he turned away, secretly enjoying their playful banters and teasing as much as Jeongin.

“Yeah, me too.”

Between the two of them, Jeongin was always the one to wake up earlier.

Sometimes, he was up even before the sun had begun its ascend on the deep blue sky, the world still captured in a grip of silence and blissful sleep, Minho's quiet breaths next to him the only sounds that existed in this passage of time.

Had they chosen an apartment right in the heart of Seoul, Jeongin was sure he wouldn't have been able to enjoy these peaceful mornings, for every major city had that sleepless, vibrant vibe about it, neon signs, sounds of traffic and relentless chattering on the streets no matter the time of day.

But this was nice.

Living in the outskirts was nice.

It was comfortable and calm, detached from reality while at the same time close enough to the city that they didn't feel lonely or excluded from everything that was Seoul.

A get-away by choice, as Minho would often call it, or a fortress of intimacy just for the two of them, an escape from the visible world to chase after their imagination.

Jeongin truthfully had no idea what Minho meant with his words sometimes, as was the downside of dating a writer when he himself only processed his thoughts in pictures, but they made it work somehow.

They always did.

And even if Minho didn't really understand what drove Jeongin to get out of bed so early every day or why he stood on their balcony in awe when the surreal, picturesque sun rose from the sea of dark blue, he always grudgingly let go of the younger anyway on mornings like this one where they were tangled together even more than usual.

Minho didn't look the part, but he was very cuddly, clinging to him in his sleep more often than not, only adding to the fuzzy feeling in Jeongin's stomach that was present every time he opened his eyes.

On this morning, however, there was an unpleasant aftertaste mixing with the usual contentment, a dreadful twinge that he wasn't able to make sense of as he simply stared at the ceiling of their bedroom, his boyfriend's warmth next to him.

Nothing felt different, yet Jeongin was unsettled anyway, restless and jumpy as he sat up and rubbed at his eyes, willing the sleepiness of the night away.

It was still dark in the room, only a few select rays of first daylight sneaking through the opening in their curtains, causing the paintings on the wall to cast shadows.

The five of them made up a perfectly neat row, resembling an exhibition in an art gallery, and Jeongin was just about to snicker to himself at the thought of people taking a stroll through their bedroom when his eyes suddenly caught something in the darkness.

Sitting up a little straighter, he squinted at the yellow speck of light seemingly hovering on their wall, unable to deter where it was coming from.

There was no visible source of light in the room that could have projected the tiny glow against the wall and the stray beams of sunlight didn't have enough intensity to be responsible for it either, so what was it?

Jeongin blinked a few more times, just to be sure that he wasn't imagining things, but when the light remained, he heaved himself up, slowly padding towards the wall, gaze fixed on this strange phenomenon and his stomach contracting like he was about to throw up.

He had no clue why he had such a strong reaction to a strange light in his room, but upon reaching the source of said light, he frowned, squinting even harder in the darkness as if that would provide a logical explanation to what he was seeing.

Because in front of him, his newly acquired painting hung innocently from the wall, the motif of a castle barely discernible, yet somehow faintly illuminated by the glow of a lit up window that _hadn't been there before._

Jeongin stared at the canvas.

He was speechless, any and all words wiped from his mind, replaced by rapidly rising hysteria and a sense of disembodied fear because _what the fuck_?

Why was one of the castle's windows lit up? _How_ was one of the castle's windows lit up?

Not only was this completely impossible in every single regard given the laws of the universe and the general way that _paintings_ worked, it was also crazy that his mind was able to conjure a hallucination on this level, betraying Jeongin's sense of reason and logic after a mere twenty years of age.

Contemplating his sanity, he let his fingers wander over the painting, specifically over the window, feeling the same fissured, uneven surface he would have expected to feel.

Nothing changed, not even as he removed the painting from the wall, placing it on the bed and accidentally disturbing Soonie who had rested curled up at the foot of the bed.

She hissed in irritation, the sound of which was enough to rouse Minho, a few mumbles and uneasy shifting enough to confirm that he was about to wake up.

Which was excellent timing because Jeongin really needed someone to tell him that he was losing his mind.

“Min, get up”, he demanded, the strained edge in his voice not going unnoticed by either of them as Minho pushed the blanket off and sat up, having detected the urgency of the situation and wanting to help.

“Okay, I'm here, what's wrong?”

Minho switched their bedside lamp on, revealing his messy bed hair and the godly abs under his shirt that Jeongin would have normally commented on, but couldn't care less about right now as he gestured towards the painting.

“Hyung, do you see the glow in one of the windows?”

The question was obviously a little too arbitrary and out of the blue for someone who had just woken up a second ago, the older looking at him like a lost lamb while his brain worked hard to catch up, but eventually, his gaze did drop towards the canvas, scrutinizing eyes scanning over the motif.

Even as Jeongin saw the unnatural glow of the castle's window reflected in his pupils – something that shouldn't even be possible by common logic –, it didn't seem like Minho _saw_ anything, the revelation both entirely expected and hilariously ridiculous.

It was almost insulting, offensive when he met Jeongin's gaze after a long minute of analyzing the painting, obviously thinking what to say in light of his boyfriend going mad, but Jeongin found only relief flooding his heart when Minho shook his head and fixed him with a worried glance.

“Innie, there's no glow in the painting”, he explained, the eerie light dancing in his pupils as if to taunt Jeongin. “It looks like always.”

Yeah. Of course it did.

Jeongin hadn't expected any other response, even with the way his eyes were deceiving him, trying to make him believe the impossibility of the situation despite his sanity and reason.

If they hadn't spontaneously evaporated by now.

“Then why...”

His words abruptly caught in his throat, suppressed by a sudden pressure on his neck, invisible, unseizable, yet undoubtedly present in the way shivers ran down his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Bad vibes.

They didn't have a concrete shape or form, simply existed as an oppressing aura in the air, yet they still gave Jeongin the creeps as he made a move to stumble towards the light switch, the dim light from the bedside lamp not sufficient.

Minho briefly closed his eyes as brightness flooded the room, but Jeongin couldn't pay any attention to that, instead bringing his hands up towards his neck, rubbing the skin there as he was trying to rid himself of the uncomfortable pressure.

He didn't know what it was, but he felt unsettled, weirdly cold and shivering despite all their windows being shut. Minho didn't like sleeping with open windows.

“What's gotten into you?”

The older male looked at him in a mix of concern and irritation, picking up the painting that still laid on the bed to inspect it under a brighter light.

Even under the white glow of their ceiling lamp, Jeongin saw the window lit up, the only speck of light on the otherwise dull and melancholic canvas.

It didn't make sense.

“Hyung, I _see_ it”, he pressed, like the words alone would make Minho understand. Needless to say, they didn't. “I don't know why I see it, but I do and it's freaking me out.”

The pressure on his neck returned, some claustrophobic and crushing feeling making his breath hitch, and he scratched at his neck while Minho gave him another worried glance before reaching for his phone on the bedside table.

For the terrifying fragment of a second Jeongin feared he would call a psychiatrist or someone else to take him away because he was going crazy – which wasn't necessarily wrong, but still a scary thing to think about –, but as it turned out, Minho only used the phone to take a picture of the painting, showing it to him like it would help.

Captured through a lens, the painting really did look like it was supposed to, just a dark, gloomy landscape with all its windows equally as dark and gloomy, but the picture did little to disillusion Jeongin, only making him more aware of the unnatural glow and the slight chill in the room.

“There really is nothing. Maybe you should get out for a while and clear your head?”

The suggestion was soft-spoken, bordering careful, like Minho was talking to a frightened deer – or well, fox – and while Jeongin would have passed up on it any other day in favor of pursuing another one of his many unfinished art projects, this time he could admit to himself that it would probably do him some good to go out.

He couldn't remember when he had last spent time around someone other than Minho, not to mention when he had last visited the city and done something fun.

With Minho working from home and him currently being on semester break came a lot of free time and aimless inspiration, so maybe his mind had finally decided to act up because of it.

Sighing, he ran a hand through his messy bed hair, tearing his gaze away from the painting at last. The light stayed in his field of vision a moment longer.

“You're right, I should call Felix.”

It was no problem at all to convince Felix to spend the day with him.

The boy was an art major like Jeongin and they shared most of their courses, including art history where they regularly mocked their asshole of a teacher, trying to outdo each other in creating memes about the guy.

They never went too far, of course they didn't, but Felix always brought that little spark into Jeongin's day with his whispered comments during class and his less than subtle attempts to catch a good angle to take a picture for his newest meme.

He was just a really funny and overall pleasant presence to be around, be it at university or in private where he invited the younger to try that new dish he had experimented with, play video games with him or go to the art gallery to see if they were displaying any new works.

Such was his proposal when Jeongin had called him, and seeing how he had no better idea what to do with his day, Jeongin agreed to meet him in front of the building at twelve o'clock sharp.

It was currently five to twelve, Jeongin sitting on the stone steps that led up to the entrance of the gallery, shivering despite the scarf he had borrowed from Minho, his gaze sweeping over the snowy street in front of him.

The white, powdery snow was completely untouched, this usually busy part of Seoul gripped by a bizarre desertedness, merely the howling of the wind and a few lonely snowflakes keeping him company as he waited for Felix to turn up.

It seemed weird for the streets to be so empty, so devoid of human life, especially on a normal work day such as this one, and while it did provide a misplaced sense of dread, he chose not to dwell on it too much.

Maybe everyone in the city had unanimously decided to stay home today and him and Felix just hadn't gotten the message.

It wouldn't be the first time.

Whatever the case was, Jeongin didn't care all that much as he leaned back against the steps, closing his eyes and enjoying the peaceful atmosphere, the absence of any city sounds around him that would have made for a perfect background ambiente if he had thought to take his sketchbook with him.

Then again, who knew what madness his brain would have produced if he had tried to draw anything in the antsy and confused state he was currently in?

Before he could entertain the possibilities of what a physical representation of his state of mind would look like, there were crunching noises in the snow, the humming of Felix's deep voice carrying over to him.

Jeongin opened his eyes and picked himself up just as the boy reached the first step, a bright smile on his face and a similarly bright glow in his eyes, the spark of a fire before it could erupt.

Like the light in the painting, the spark danced across Felix's pupils in a made-up choreography, and it made him tense for a moment, a feeling of uneasiness spreading in his heart.

He pushed it down.

He was just being paranoid.

“Hey Innie, how have you been?”, Felix greeted as soon as he had reached Jeongin, the yellow glow now clearly on display, turning Jeongin's smile a little more strained as he was pulled into an affectionate hug. “It's been ages since we hung out, I missed you!”

Felix's hugs always had that warm, comforting thing about them that made Jeongin melt into them, his muscles relaxing and his head filling with the too strong odor of strawberry cheesecake, the cologne Jisung had gifted Felix for his last birthday.

Probably mostly for his own enjoyment.

He wasn't exactly a fan, but he'd manage for today.

“Didn't you see me last week at university?”

The teasing remark only caused Felix's arms to tighten around him, a disapproving noise leaving him.

“That's not the same and you know it.”

Jeongin chuckled fondly, waiting until he was released to flash the older boy a cheeky grin, paying attention to focus on the freckles that dusted Felix's cheeks instead of his eyes.

The dark sun spots were like a painting of their own on the canvas that was Felix's skin, constellations of stars drawn by the greatest artist, fate itself.

“Well, I'm here now”, Jeongin remarked, giving a nod towards the gallery in a silent suggestion to get out of the cold and into the building. “Let's check out what new exhibitions they have here, shall we?”

Felix nodded excitedly and they approached the entrance, the older boy's hand almost naturally slipping into his, an innocent show of affection that Jeongin had grown to like.

The gallery's door was open, yellow light spilling out and falling on the undisturbed piles of snow as if inviting them in, yet the lack of people was immediately apparent when they stepped over the threshold.

Even though all lights inside the building were switched on and indicated someone's presence within these walls, the entrance hall, as well as the open hallway on their left, were as empty and desolate as everything outside, no movements or sounds coming from anywhere.

It was unnerving.

Jeongin could tell Felix was just as thrown off from the lack of people at such a time as he was, his unsure eyes scanning the room for any sign of the gallery owner, a guy by the name of Changbin who was close friends with Minho.

Back when Jeongin had first spoken to him regarding exhibition fees for some of the artworks he wanted to sell, he had been slightly intimidated by the guy's stature and his overall aura, but he had quickly learned that Changbin was a really caring person with a heart of gold.

Plus, his commission was really low, so Jeongin liked him even more.

Typically, whenever Felix and him were at the gallery, Changbin would show them around and point out some new exhibits that might interest them, but today he seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth just like everyone else.

He must have been here this morning, otherwise the lights wouldn't be on and the door wouldn't be unlocked, but if he was still in the building right now, the gallery swallowed all sounds, all traces of his existence.

“Where is he?”, Felix softly asked, taking a step towards the hallway only to freeze when a lamp above him started flickering, a random, confused pattern of light hitting the ground.

Jeongin's stomach roiled, but he didn't say anything.

The flicker turned aggressive, the interlude of dark and light taking him back to his painting at home, and a chill ran down his back when the lamp suddenly died, the bulb giving a few sad buzzing noises.

It could have been coincidence.

The lightless lamp was like a blotch of color on a canvas, a perfect painting ruined with a single mistake, but it could have been written off as coincidence.

It could have, until the next lamp flickered, unmistakably a fickle act of fate to paint the walls with their fear, and Felix sucked in a sharp breath, trying to stay composed as he watched the spectacle, the glow in his eyes reflecting the flickering of the lamp like they were communicating.

Like a moth drawn to a flame, he stared at the light, fascinated and fazed at the same time, agitation building right beneath his skin as his grip on Jeongin's hand tightened.

“Maybe we shouldn't be here.”

The words were whispered in careful, calculated unease, holding an unsettled weight as Felix's gaze dropped from the lamp to meet his own, light seemingly eating away at his pupils, at his soul.

It was impossible to ignore the movement of sparks, the way those brown depths housed a single star, a single destructive and unknown glow, and if Jeongin hadn't felt creeped out before, he sure as hell would have by now.

The figure next to him was undoubtedly Felix, but his eyes...

The way they were overshadowed by that blinding glow, the way they went strangely out of focus, hazy, as if Felix wasn't really _here_ , it all caused Jeongin to pull his hand away and take a step back.

 _You're paranoid_ , his mind whispered, devilish innocence ridiculing his raw instincts like they were worth nothing.

A lamp flickered above him, giving a silent signal for Felix to move forward, his expression smoothing out into something neutral, something _blank_ , the contrast to his normally expressive nature all too apparent.

They really shouldn't be here.

There was another flicker, this time from a lamp located closer to the hallway, and like a puppet controlled by a string, Felix obeyed the light's order, stepping towards the corridor that displayed various paintings on its walls, works collected from artists all over Seoul.

Warily, Jeongin followed his example, making sure to keep enough distance between them, so he had enough time to turn around and run if things went awry.

He wasn't sure what Felix was doing, neither did he yearn to know, yet even with his hands growing clammy from fear and his heart pounding in his chest, he felt responsible for making sure that his older friend wasn't going to put himself into danger.

“Lix”, he tentatively called out, just to try and evoke a reaction that never came. “Let's get out of here.”

His voice was unstable, high-pitched, and a few lamps suddenly flickered at once, collectively cackling at his useless endeavors.

Felix didn't pause to consider the suggestion if he had even heard it, moving as in trance, passing the first paintings in the hallway.

Jeongin's stomach acted up again, but he kept his nausea at bay by taking a few deep breaths before entering the hallway as well, the paintings to either side of him swirling, their colors meshing as if someone had chucked a bucket of water at a canvas of watercolors.

Portraits, landscapes and other motifs alike melted away, drops of paint dropping from the canvases, pooling on the carpeted floor below in a puddle of painstakingly constructed planning and neatly executed strokes that were lost forever.

The paintings were... _dissolving_?

Rubbing his eyes, Jeongin willed the absurd hallucination away, his effort rendered fruitless when Felix suddenly spoke up from where he had stopped a few meters ahead, looking at the intact paintings around him that slowly started to fade.

All colors, all life was sucked out of them, the remnants of days upon days, weeks upon weeks, years upon years of hard work reduced to nothing but a blurry picture.

“No, you should look at this.”

Felix wasn't facing him, but Jeongin understood him loud and clear anyway, the message behind his voice touching some part of his own soul as he regarded the blurred, incomprehensible depictions with a heavy heart.

There wasn't anything worth looking at and he hesitated, every fiber of his being advising him not to approach Felix, too scared of what consequences might befall him if he did.

Because Felix clearly wasn't himself right now, whatever entity possessed him playing him like a marionette, as was obvious in the way the older turned to him after a moment of not receiving a reply, his eyes still haunted by that unnatural glow.

“Look”, came the request again, a little more forceful this time, and Jeongin mentally steeled himself, giving a tiny nod and taking a few steps in Felix's direction so he could get a better view of what he was supposed to look at.

He didn't know why he obliged, why he chose to indulge his friend, but maybe it was some mix between morbid curiosity and utter stupidity that made him glance at the wall Felix was standing in front of, seeing nothing but a miserable blend of colors.

Well, for the most part.

Because right there, among the indistinguishable array of paintings, was a single one left untouched by the strange happenings, a portrait of a young painter with long black hair framing his face.

For a moment, the only sensation coursing through Jeongin's body at the sight was a mild irritation, confusion about the inconsistency of his hallucinations, but the longer he stared at the painting the more he was aware of a faint, yet raw anger that pulsed beneath his skin.

It was rootless, baseless in the way it bubbled up, but it was still intense enough to make his face heat up, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

The world started to blur in front of his eyes, a mix of colors blending together in the painting that was his life, and with it came a splitting headache, so sudden and intense that it nearly caused him to wail.

All thoughts he might have been able to form splintered on the floor, breaking like pieces of glass, leaving only a dreadful sense of emptiness in its wake, cold and heartless.

He was freezing from inside out, his hands coming up to rub his arms doing nothing as goosebumps spread all over his body, and the crushing pressure on his neck came back at once, cutting off his breath as easily as flicking a light switch.

A feral, deep-rooted instinct took hold of his limbs and he backed away a few steps, panic just barely contained before it erupted and he made a mad dash for the entrance, his heart constricting painfully at the revelation that he was leaving Felix despite having wanted to _not_ do that.

At the same time, he couldn't help it, the terror the boy had set off by showing him that painting both overwhelming and utterly disconcerting because what had him reacting like that to a simple portrait?

Why was fear encompassing his heart, crushing all logical thoughts and urging him to run for his life as if there was some terrible omen within that portrait?

It didn't make sense.

He wasn't making any sense.

There was gnawing doubt eating away at him as he fought to get through the masses of snow outside, every step seeming like thunder on the deserted streets.

Why were they deserted? Where _was_ everyone?

The answer didn't matter, the need to get home burning stronger in his mind than everything else, his surroundings mingling in a morass of white and grey while icy flakes descended from the too peaceful sky, unaware of the turmoil brewing inside Jeongin's head.

The way out of the city and into the outskirts normally took about twenty minutes by foot, give or take depending on the weather and season, but today, Jeongin managed it in ten, his lungs burning when he finally reached the apartment he shared with Minho.

He had a sneaking suspicion he looked like a mess, hair tussled from the wind, sweat running down his face and a panicked gleam in his eyes as he pushed the door open, but Minho barely got a good look at him anyway, poking his head out of the kitchen just as Jeongin threw himself up the stairs.

There was a confused call from downstairs, the sound of Soonie hissing as she was disturbed from her nap at the top of the stairs, but he barely paid it any mind, merely jumping over the cat and stumbling to the bedroom in complete mania.

He didn't know what he expected.

Maybe his new painting blurred beyond recognition, colors dripping on the floor and the cruel glow amidst the canvas laughing at him.

Anything that might have confirmed his experience at the gallery, made it clear to him that he _wasn't_ losing his mind, though all hopes of that were shattered when his gaze fell on the spot where the painting hung, a frustrated scream tearing itself from his throat.

Because the painting was _normal_.

It was exactly how Jeongin remembered buying it, a dark castle in front of a grim background, not a single source of light visible anywhere on the canvas.

There was no glow.

_There was no glow._

He stared at the painting, his eyes watering, his mind derailing and his hands twitching, wanting to tear the thing down and rip it into pieces because _why was there no glow_?

He had seen it this morning, it had been _there_ , so why wasn't it there now?

“Innie?”, came Minho's questioning voice from the door, the younger resisting the urge to break into tears at the sight of his boyfriend _also_ without any kind of glow in his eyes, just that normal, comforting, vivid brown he adored.

“Is everything alright? Did things not go well with Felix?”

Felix.

His body threatened to break down once more at the mention of the boy and Minho seemed to recognize that, reaching out to steady Jeongin and sit him down on the bed.

The younger wanted to fall back into the fluffiness of the pillows behind him and sleep off this trainwreck of a day, sort his thoughts and the events of today that swirled mindlessly in his memory, but a sudden ping from his phone swept those thoughts away, Felix's name smiling up at him.

Jeongin's breath hitched.

Unlocking his phone, he was greeted with a message from the boy, its content so insultingly harmless that he felt like he had been given whiplash.

_Felix: I had fun today, Innie! Hope we can hang out again sometime soon!_

He blinked once, then twice, hoping for the words to twist into something that was actually representative of what the hell had happened, but they stayed as ridiculously innocent as they were, Minho chuckling warmly as he read over the message as well.

“You should meet with him more often, I think he's good for you.”

Yeah. Right.

Jeongin wanted to scoff, yet the sound never made it past his lips, choked by the nausea that hit him full force, and he turned to his side, emptying his stomach right there on their bedroom floor.

Minho immediately dissolved into worry, rubbing his back as he heaved up the remnants of his breakfast, soothing him with sweet words and bringing up a tissue the second Jeongin was done, wiping at his mouth while the younger gave free reign for his tears to fall.

He felt absolutely revolted, disgusted and disgusting beyond his comprehension, shaking like a leaf as he grabbed for Minho's shirt, needing something to ground himself into the present, into the comfort of his boyfriend, into the reality that he wasn't going insane.

He was exhausted, mentally as much as physically, and he couldn't hold on to the sliver of awareness anymore that was rapidly slipping from his grasp, seeking to carry him off to sleep where everything made sense and nothing mattered.

Minho carefully eased him down, tugging at the blanket to cover Jeongin's still very much clothed body, and letting his hand rest on the younger's forehead in an action meant to bring comfort on one hand and clarity on whether he was developing a fever on the other.

Jeongin had half a mind to hope he did wake up sick tomorrow, just to have an excuse to write off this day as a bad fever dream, but the thought was lost on the wide waters that were his mind as he let himself fall into welcome darkness.

Jeongin awoke the next day with a dizzy and floaty feeling, like someone had stuffed cotton into his head.

His limbs were weirdly unresponsive, locked up in discomfort from the position he had slept in, but there was a cozy warmth to either side of him that made him unwilling to move, afraid he was going to disturb either Minho on his left or Soonie on his right.

From the way the light fell into the room, he could tell it was already past sunrise, though he didn't feel particularly bothered by having missed the magical timeframe he was normally dying to catch.

There was always tomorrow.

Settling back against the pillows, he looked at the ceiling, feeling too detached to think of much else except the steady breathing he could make out next to him and the lingering bitterness in his throat.

Yesterday was a blur of colors and voices in his head, a smudged display of watercolors too unclear to grasp it, and Jeongin indulged in the blissful, unknowing reality, feeling his eyes slip shut again as his mind tried to ease him back into sleep.

However, the attempt was spoiled when a sudden, icy gust of wind swept into the room, startling him out of his slow descent into unconsciousness with all the intensity of a winter storm.

Even safely tucked under the blanket, he shivered from the unnatural cold creeping into his bones, faintly registering that Minho must have left the window open last night.

It struck him as odd, yet in his hazy state of mind, he simply dismissed the feeling, peeling himself out of bed with sluggish, uncoordinated movements that disturbed Soonie enough to lift her head for a second.

She seemed to be immediately on edge, ears flattened and gaze fixed on the curtains, a warning hiss tearing from her throat that made Jeongin follow her stare.

He instantly froze.

Behind the curtains, right in front of their window, there was the silhouette of a person.

A wave of shock went through Jeongin, his heart dropping to his stomach at the thought of a burglar or a crazed murderer on their balcony and he reached out to harshly shake Minho's body next to him, his eyes never leaving the intimidating figure behind the curtains.

“Min hyung, Min, get up!! There's someone on our balcony!”

The silhouette swayed lightly, like it was nothing more than a leaf in the wind, yet it did little to reassure Jeongin, freaking him out even more as he tugged and pinched his boyfriend.

The warmth that had radiated off him before was gone, drowned in the chilly atmosphere of the room that was slowly freezing Jeongin's insides, but Minho was awfully unaware of the coldness as he returned to the realm of living, a confused expression falling over his face at the sight of Jeongin shivering.

“Are you cold, love?”, he asked, with that husky, breathless voice he always had after a long sleep, but Jeongin had other worries right now, so he pulled the older into a sitting position, wildly gesturing at the windows.

“There's someone on our balcony”, he repeated urgently, the words dissolving what was left of Minho's sleepiness and causing him to scramble to his feet, the urge to protect taking over him.

He squinted at the curtains, yet didn't even flinch at the sight of the silhouette, didn't give any sign of even acknowledging that it was there, instead approaching their balcony door with careful, calculating steps.

Jeongin sat half frozen on the bed, Soonie quietly hissing to his right, but Minho seemed fearless, walking right towards the silhouette and reaching for the curtains.

The younger was scared what would await them behind there.

Tensing in preparation, he curled his fingers into the blanket, a terrified shiver wracking his body when Minho yanked the curtains aside with one swift movement.

Out there, on their balcony, there was... There was...

… Nothing.

It took Jeongin a few seconds to realize the absence of another person, disbelief replacing the terror that had gripped his heart as he stumbled towards the glass door, fumbling with the handle and forcing it open, needing to see with his own eyes that the balcony was empty.

The air outside was warmer than he had expected, given the cold breeze in their room, and he faltered at the sight of a clear, blue sky, puffy clouds drifting along the horizon.

Somewhere in the distance, there was the inner city of Seoul, though he only saw half of it, his mind shutting down when Minho's voice sounded from right behind him.

“There's nobody here, Innie”, he unhelpfully stated, a mix of comfort and knowing gentleness creeping into his tone. “It was just your imagination.”

Jeongin wanted to cry.

He knew he hadn't simply imagined the silhouette, after all Soonie had seen it even before he had, but he doubted it would be enough to convince Minho.

He tried anyway.

“But Soonie saw it too!”

He turned around and pushed past Minho, determined to show his boyfriend Soonie's agitated demeanor, but as soon as his gaze fell on the bed, he froze once more, lost for words at the reality of what laid before him.

The bed was empty.

Soonie wasn't lying somewhere on Jeongin's side of the bed, neither was she anywhere in the room, and since the door was firmly closed like always, there was no chance she could have gone out that way.

So she had just... vanished.

Suddenly feeling himself go a little weak in the knees, he held onto the wall for support, his head pounding with a painful, unfamiliar feeling.

What was happening?

 _You're paranoid_ , his mind whispered again, gleefully indulging in his helpless floundering inside of his own thoughts.

“Jeongin, love.”

There was a certain kind of hurt discernible in the way Minho called him and as Jeongin met his eyes, he could see overwhelming worry behind that taunting glow.

“Maybe we should get that checked out.”

_Maybe we should get you checked out._

Minho wasn't saying it, but the implications were clear as day anyway, insulting as much as heartbreaking.

Somehow, Jeongin couldn't really hold it against him.

He thought he was crazy too.

Frustrated by the tricks his mind was pulling on him, he pressed his hands against his face for a brief moment, letting out a shaky exhale before nodding in resignation.

Maybe he should get help.

Maybe there was something wrong with him.

“Please help me, hyung.”

The day Jeongin stepped out of his house for the scheduled appointment with a psychiatrist was a rather miserable one.

Bleak, dark grey clouds hovered ominously above him, not a sign of the sun in sight to spend a little warmth, and the vacancy that filled out his heart was unusually heavy, dreadful, mirroring the sky all too well.

The wind tugged aggressively at him as if it wanted to sweep him away, the thin jacket he had picked out to wear doing nothing to keep the icy February air out, but even as he shivered miserably, he simply pulled the front door closed and took off into the snowy whiteness spreading out in front of him.

Minho had offered to walk him to the appointment at least a dozen times, wanting to provide comfort and support, but Jeongin had turned him down every time, embarrassed at the thought of having his boyfriend next to him while the psychiatrist broke down every single problem in his head into fancy words and even fancier explanations that didn't mean anything.

He didn't want to have Minho look at him with that pitying, heartbroken expression on his face again, worry apparent in the way he softly stroked the younger's head while staring off into space, seemingly pondering how to help.

Jeongin was someone who didn't like to rely on help, priding himself on the desire to solve his own turmoils and fight his own battles, so to speak, and every obstacle he couldn't overcome himself was a burden he didn't need Minho carrying, despite the older's insistence that it was his job to look after him.

“ _You're not my babysitter, hyung”,_ had been the beginning of a debate the two of them had led time and time again, never bearing any fruits and only succeeding in upsetting both parties to the point where Jeongin had dragged his blanket to the living room and slept on the couch.

He appreciated the concern, he really did, but he was perfectly capable of handling his own damn self.

And that included making the short walk to the psychiatrist on his own.

The inconspicuous looking grey building wasn't that far away from their apartment, located in the outer city where the only indication of time was the speed at which the snowflakes descended around him.

Silence gripped his surroundings like back at the gallery, not a single sign of any human etched into the thick layer of snow he ploughed through, untouched, calm whiteness contrasting with the rapid storm of thoughts in his head.

Once again, it was eerie, unnatural how deserted it was, not a single soul existing in the void Jeongin trespassed in despite Seoul being a busy city basically all year round, hectic rush and energy pulsing in the streets and keeping them alive.

Right now, though, they were dead, buried in white and paling to watercolors that were barely vibrant enough to be made out on the canvas.

It was paranoia conjured by his mind when Jeongin glanced over his shoulder, squinted at his surroundings, tried to make out anything beyond the horizon, but he couldn't quell the uneasiness crawling under his skin, the pounding in his head or the haunting, yet still faint pressure around his neck as he stopped in front of the grey building.

There were no lights from inside, no indication that someone was waiting for him, no proof that there was life behind those windows, or in this area, this city, this _world_.

For all his surroundings gave away, Jeongin might as well be the only human inhabiting the city, though he dismissed the idea in an instant when his heart seemed to pick up speed in some sort of silent reply.

He was being silly. Irrational. Paranoid.

Taking a deep breath to ground himself, he took a step towards the building, the world inching closer as a consequence, the pressure on his neck increasing and making him choke, his hands coming up to scratch at his neck.

There was nothing there, just traces of something he couldn't grasp, a distorted display of events replaying in his mind as a blurry haze that made him nauseous as he took a second, uncoordinated step forwards.

His body was clearly trying to prevent him from approaching the building and he floundered in the vast whiteness without a proper hold on reality, comprehension and clarity no longer possessing any meaning.

Raw instinct took their place, the urge to back away and _run_ manifesting in his mind, though the thought had barely crossed his mind when it was suddenly wiped away by a familiar voice right behind him.

“You should look at this.”

Felix's breath was icy as it hit the back of Jeongin's neck, chilling him to the bone and sending a shiver of dread down his spine, and he whipped around, about to curse Felix out for startling him.

Except the boy wasn't there.

Jeongin was sure he had heard his voice, but there was no sign of the older's presence anywhere in his snowy surroundings, the ground undisturbed save for Jeongin's own footsteps and merely the wind whispering to him in a language he didn't speak.

But no Felix.

“Felix?”, he called out regardless, drawing a blank at the possibility of receiving a reply.

He was hallucinating again, his mind replaying the moment from back at the gallery to freak him out.

This wasn't real.

“Innie”, Felix called from further down the street, blond hair almost glowing in the whiteness of the snowfall, unsettling Jeongin as he felt himself reminded of the glow that had ruled Felix's eyes.

He hesitated, watching the wind ruffle the boy's hair for a minute until Felix slowly moved away from him, an unspoken request to follow hanging in the air once more.

Jeongin knew he shouldn't make the same mistake again, knew he should ignore Felix and meet up with his psychiatrist, yet at the same time, guilt was tugging at his heart, the memory of leaving Felix in a panic all too fresh on his mind.

He still had no clue why he had reacted so strongly like this, but even the mere thought of the portrait he had seen that day was enough to stir some deeply burrowed feelings inside of him, the likes of which were unpleasant and painful.

“Innie”, came the same call again, a single sound carried by the wind and despite himself, Jeongin found his body following Felix, the pressure on his neck easing for the time being.

There were no footsteps on the ground, like the boy was an apparition produced by his own mind, but he ignored the way his chest tightened, focusing on not losing the mop of blond hair in front of him.

“Where are we going?”, he asked, hoping for his words to carry over the howling wind, hoping not to speak to an empty void, but if Felix had heard him, he chose to shroud himself in silence, his gaze firmly fixed on what was in front of them.

And what that was, Jeongin had no idea, for the further he followed, the more he became aware of the increasingly white surroundings, colors and objects wiped off the face of the earth, leaving the two of them to wander through pure whiteness.

At some point, even the persistent snow ceased, the sky growing equally as white as the ground and everything around him, just a meaningless blankness stretching out in front of him.

A canvas before the first stroke.

Behind him, there was the finished painting of the world he had grown up in, and in front of him laid the untainted canvas everything had started with, the bare truth before it had been hidden under a false layer of paint.

He didn't know what Felix was trying to show him with this, but before he could ask, the older boy suddenly stopped walking, dissolving into light like the illusion he was, leaving behind a white vacancy Jeongin was all alone in.

He paused, taking in the nothingness like he was attempting to disassemble it, attempting to find a reason why Felix had led him here, but there was nothing to disassemble and nothing to find.

Because there was nothing.

A pointless journey coming to a stop, he didn't know if it was disappointment or confusion with which he stared into the void, but both options paled in comparison to the raging fury flaring up inside of him as soon as he turned around.

Because right there behind him was a young boy with black hair that framed his face.

A mirror image of the portrait he had seen in the gallery.

Before Jeongin even had time to wonder how the boy had popped up out of nowhere, a feral, violent instinct from within a corner of his being that didn't belong to him gripped his body, clouding his mind and making him pounce on the boy like a predator on its prey.

With a cry of surprise and an animalistic growl of pure hatred, he pushed the guy to the ground, drawing upon a strength he didn't know he possessed until now, his hands instantly closing around the boy's neck.

The fit of blind rage and need for revenge that consumed him, warped his vision, flooded his veins, was so unlike him, so inherently _savage_ , that he felt himself panic, though the feeling was drowned out by an onslaught of bitter memories he could taste on his tongue.

Below him, the boy was struggling, gasping for air, fighting against the tight hold Jeongin had on him, but his efforts were in vain and so were the pleas spilling from his lips, begging for mercy that wouldn't come.

After all, the boy hadn't shown any mercy either.

_The afternoon sun filtered through the windows of the artist's workshop, golden and gentle, casting long shadows against the wall and the many finished paintings leaning against it._

_The workshop was almost entirely quiet, eerily so, save for the desperate scratching on the wooden floor and the miserable noises of panic and fear the young artist was able to make as he was choked._

_His attacker, a tall young man with black hair, had him pinned to the ground, forcefully keeping him there with his weight and pushing his hands deeper and deeper into the artist's neck._

_There was a glint, a glow of something in the young man's eyes, sadistic and heartless, insane and envious._

“ _I'm not jealous of you”, he panted, disdain dripping from his voice and the haunting glow dancing in his eyes, a reflection from the afternoon sun. “But you don't deserve the fame.”_

“ _And you will never get the fame”, the artist snarled, every word physically painful to get past his lips as he struggled, pushing and tugging at the young man on top of him in a fruitless attempt to get him away. “Even if you kill me, nothing will change.”_

_The young man smiled._

“ _We'll see.”_

Jeongin snapped back into the present as if someone had doused him in ice cold water, the memories pulsing in his head, right behind his eyelids, for a moment longer before they disappeared into the expanses of his mind.

His hands closed around nothing.

The boy was gone, and so was any fury left within him, blown away by the harsh wind in the white void that surrounded him.

Except that it wasn't pure white anymore – blotches of red were splattered across the sky, telling a story long lost, a stroke of suffering made by the artist.

Jeongin's heart was still thumping rapidly in his chest, his head going light with recollection, realization, and he sputtered, suddenly feeling the need to vomit.

These memories... They weren't his, yet at the same time, they were.

Had he just gotten a glimpse into a previous life?

Revolted and scared by the idea, he weakly pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly from leftover adrenaline, his quick breaths making puffs of smoke in the cold air.

Around him, the world seemed to shrink in, collapse on itself and once more, he was overcome by the compulsion to _run_ , the need to get away from his revelation choking him.

The pressure around his neck suddenly had a root, a cause with feelings attached to it, and he scratched at his neck even more fiercely, terrified by the implications as he took off running.

Endless white passed him on all sides, the demeaning red from above grinning down on him, coming closer and closer with every step he took, but he tried to tune it out, focusing only on the rabbit-paced pulse in his temples.

He had to get away.

It didn't even matter where he was going, he just had to escape the whiteness before it swallowed him, dragged him into depths unknown to his mind and erased all color, all paint from his life.

He nearly stumbled over his feet when his surroundings faded into existence again, the ground below him snowy and crunching as he sped over it, the buildings beside him appearing as if they had never been absent, the sky above clouded and dark again, a bad omen proved true.

It was still storming, snowing, the wind ferociously ripping at him, but it was infinitely better than the sheer nothingness from before, so he gladly inhaled the harsh air, thankful for its company on the empty, quiet streets.

He didn't dare to look back during his panicked sprint home, too afraid to be faced with a reality he wouldn't be able to endure, with a gaping void reflecting haunting recollections from the past, and something inside of him told him it was better not to look anyway.

Not when he could feel a demanding tug at his body, hear the hollow laugh of someone behind him and see the edges of his vision flickering like he was in a glitchy video game.

His escape, his chance of solace, was given to him when he reached the front door of their apartment, and he frantically pushed it open.

His head was spinning, once again feeling like it was stuffed full of cotton as he tumbled inside their home with a call of Minho's name that held desperation and fearful horror, his voice echoing eerily in the hallway.

He froze for a moment, praying to hear Minho answering him or maybe the shuffle of his feet on the ground, but nothing reached his ears except all-consuming silence, broken only by the electric buzz of the lamps above him as they flickered.

Shadows stretched and shrunk in meticulous sync with the lights turning on and off, the rhythm creeping Jeongin out with the resemblance it bore to what had happened at the gallery.

Still motionless, he watched one of the lamps die, its confusing flicker immediately taken over by another, and with an unpleasant feeling announcing itself in his stomach, he carefully took a step towards the living room.

Beside him, his beloved paintings seemed to dissolve just like the ones back at the gallery, creating sad puddles of paint on the floor and leaving behind a blank, empty canvas.

Devoid of any sort of life.

Devoid of the artist's presence.

The thought nauseated him, brought back a misplaced sense of dread that loomed over him like the blade of a guillotine, sharp and impending.

“Minho?”, he called out again, a weak voice in danger of being blown away by the chill that went through him. “Hyung, are you there?”

He wasn't afforded the mercy of a verbal confirmation, no ease given to him with the way the living room door creaked open ever so slightly, soundless, ominous, as an unnatural glow became visible through the crack.

It was a silent invitation, one that Jeongin didn't want to follow up on with his racing heart and sweaty hands, but he willed his rising anxiety down in favor of taking an unsure step forwards, the flickering darkness around him cackling.

The air was charged with an electrical buzz resembling that of the lamps above, something menacing, something _evil_ , and Jeongin felt uneasy.

Something was very wrong here.

His surroundings, the lovely apartment he shared with Minho, suddenly seemed so _distant,_ disconnected from reality in a way that creeped him out, every further step taken towards the living room amplifying his trepidation.

“Hyung?”

Once again, his question went unanswered, merely the door swinging open a little more, and with what little was left of his courage, he pushed at the wooden obstacle, closing his eyes as the glowing light was granted access to the hallway.

There was a hiss, undoubtedly from Soonie, the cat suddenly rushing past him at such a speed that Jeongin instinctively flinched, but he couldn't see where she was going, the glow too intense to discern anything at all.

It strived to rip him apart, sadistic and cruel as it was, yet it indulged him at the same time, dimming after a moment and enabling Jeongin to properly make out the living room, empty save for a single item uncaringly placed on the table.

Curious, yet at the same time absolutely terrified, he took a step into the room, closer to the item that looked to be some sort of old newspaper clipping that had definitely seen some better days.

Ripped and crumpled, it almost seemed like someone had attempted to destroy it on purpose, to get rid of some unfavorable evidence before it could be used against them, and with an uneasy feeling in his stomach, Jeongin reached out for the clipping.

He was sure neither he nor Minho had put it here, the two of them preferring to get their news about the world virtually, so he was already disturbed by the existence of the article itself, but all breath abruptly escaped him as he scanned over the headline.

_Second renowned artist found dead in home, half-finished painting stolen by killer._

It was a headline he had never seen before, _couldn't_ have seen before, yet it still absolutely chilled him, made his heart skip a beat in horror as familiar, foreign pictures slipped through the crack in his memories.

Voices he didn't recognize, faces of people he didn't know, feelings he had never felt, thoughts he had never thought, they all swarmed his mind at once, inducing a painful headache that had him doubling over, straining to collect himself.

Himself and the puzzle pieces strewn about in his consciousness, struggling to fit into the bigger picture of what his discovery meant.

Looking around in a sudden onslaught of paranoia, Jeongin sensed the condescending, satisfied nature of the canvases surrounding him, watching him despair, laughing at his efforts to _understand._

 _You're paranoid_ , his mind supplied, but for the first time, he disagreed with his logical reasoning, clearly feeling a menacing presence _somewhere_ in this room.

He had always dismissed reports of the paranormal as imagination, nonsense even, but there was no arguing that what was happening to him stemmed from a root beyond comprehension.

Someone was here.

Was it the artist that had been murdered in cold blood by the young man he had seen in his vision?

Was he haunting their apartment now, hell-bent on getting revenge on anyone who crossed his path?

Was he haunting—

_Half-finished painting stolen by killer._

—the _painting_?

The epiphany shot through his veins as pure adrenaline and he physically jumped, realizing that this – whatever it was – probably wasn't a safe situation.

As if reacting to his unspoken statement, the glow that filled out the room increased in intensity, a haughty laugh erupting from a corner, like whoever was responsible for this madness had silently watched him the whole time.

He probably had.

Jeongin turned on his heel, the primal urge to run away hitting him with its full force as he sprinted out of the room, barely managing to catch himself when he stumbled over his own feet in his haste.

The paintless paintings in the hallway cackled at him again, the flickering lights above his head taunted him and the floor under his feet creaked like it was at least a hundred years old, but all Jeongin could focus on in that moment was the way his panicked breathing echoed off the wall.

With his thoughts set on escape and frigid fear overtaking his reason, he flung himself at the front door, desperately pushing it open and—

And—

Pausing.

Because right outside, right behind their front door, there was...

... Nothing.

A white void stretched out before him, no up or down, left or right in its all-encompassing nothingness, just white wherever he looked, the canvas of a painting reaching out to drown him.

The white canvas of his own world.

Right. He couldn't go that way anymore.

There was nothing left out there.

Throwing the door closed again, he took to escaping upstairs, the haunting echo of slow, patient footsteps from below and a demeaning chuckle reverberating in his head like a testimony of his imminent doom.

He couldn't run. He couldn't hide. He couldn't escape.

And he still had no idea what had happened to Minho.

Despite the futility of calling out to the older again, despite his knowledge that he wouldn't get any reply, the scream tumbling from his lips still tore through the air, desperate and terror-stricken, a proof of his imminent and gruesome fate.

There was something evil in the apartment. Something evil that had already taken Minho.

And still, Jeongin screamed for his hyung, hoping despite everything for Minho to appear in front of him and take away the horror his hallucinating mind made up, to soothe his nerves and whisper sweet nothings into his ear.

As if on cue, there was a dark chuckle from somewhere behind him, sending a shiver through his body as he tried getting up the stairs without stumbling over his feet again, his panic and haste making the task more difficult than it had to be.

Beside him, the ruined paintings he used to adore so much shook dangerously, violently, despite there not being any outer force to disturb them, but he didn't think much of it until the first deafening clatter resounded through the hallway, followed by another, and another.

One by one, the paintings fell from their designated spots on the wall, the rhythm they set like distorted clockwork, unsettling and creepy, only spurring Jeongin on to sprint towards his bedroom in an action that was almost solely raw instinct fueled by agitation.

He needed to escape to somewhere, had to get a solid barrier between himself and the threatening presence behind him, so as soon as he was inside the room, he abruptly slammed the door, thanking the heavens for Minho's paranoia that had caused him to buy a lock for the bedroom.

He didn't know if it would keep paranormal beings out, but he was out of options at this point.

Closing his eyes and breathing heavily, he leaned against the door, his racing heartbeat doing nothing to help him calm down, nothing to dissolve the utter despair tugging at him.

It was whispering to him, luring him in, ridiculing him with feelings, _thoughts_ , that didn't belong to him, all induced by one particular painting he should have never bought in the first place.

And sure enough, there it was when he opened his eyes after a few dreadful seconds of listening to any sounds from outside.

A grim motif of a castle at night, with a dozen dark and gaping windows, black voids that seemed capable of sucking someone in.

Although, his heart constricted painfully, _knowingly_ , when he caught sight of not one, but _two_ lit up, symmetrically arranged windows with balconies that were emitting a pervious, yellow glow, the likes of which was much stronger than Jeongin remembered it being.

The intensity of the light made his eyes burn and there was a steady pull on his chest, on _everything_ in the room, including the cat that was curled up on the bed, fur on edge and suspicious eyes staring at him in disdain.

Confused by Soonie's hostile demeanor, Jeongin took a step towards the bed only to immediately get hissed at, the blatant rejection like a punch in the gut, especially since Soonie had never hissed at him before.

He didn't dare approach the cat, simply raising his hands as a sign of meaning no harm, his gaze almost instinctively flickering back to the painting, following the demanding tug on his chest.

His breath hitched.

Because right there, in the painting, Jeongin could faintly make out a figure on one of the window's balconies, right behind the curtains, an exact replica of what he had seen this morning.

Only this time, he recognized the silhouette that was drawn on a canvas it didn't belong on.

This was... this was Minho.

A shiver crawled down his back and he could feel himself trembling in disbelief, but he resisted the urge to rub his eyes, knowing that it wouldn't change anything anyway.

He wasn't crazy, this was really happening.

Minho was really trapped in a _painting_ , reduced to strokes of paint and the eerie glow penetrating the canvas, blurring the edges of impossibility and reality beyond recognition.

Soonie hissed again, a ferocious, angry sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up for some reason, but before he got a chance to dwell on it, he heard a conceited, arrogant snicker coming from—

Right.

Behind.

Him.

“There, there, Soonie, it's just me, isn't it?”

Jeongin froze at the all too familiar voice, his mind abruptly going blank, erasing the utter terror that had already reached out with its clammy fingers to drown him in the ocean of revelation.

All thoughts he might have been able to form splintered on the floor, breaking like pieces of glass, leaving only a grisly sense of emptiness in its wake, cold and heartless.

It was expected, yet still hauntingly terrific when he felt a crushing pressure around his neck again, and he choked pitifully as his vision shifted out of focus, his misery only met with an amused laugh.

 _His_ laugh.

Because as he spun around, the boy that sat on his bed with a triumphant gleam and an ever-present glow in his eyes looked identical to him.

It _was_ him.

And with that realization came the flurry of suppressed sensations that had lingered in his mind like starving hyenas, all but waiting to tear into him and rip away the last remaining scraps of sanity he might have been able to salvage.

Sensations that did and didn't belong to him wrestled for dominance in his mind, inducing a searing headache and a numbing phantom pain in his muscles that made his eyes well up when he lingered on it for too long.

The boy on the bed – his spitting image – was staring at him, a challenge on his features, a cruel curiosity in the way he played around with a tiny ring, the embedded diamond sparkling in a rather sinister light.

Jeongin felt his heart drop at the casual, non-committal manner in which the precious ring was handled, but even as he tried to form words, even as he tried to move, to _run_ , to simply do _anything_ , none of his orders seemed to reach the corresponding parts of his body.

He simply gazed at the object; longing, heartbroken, resigned.

Of course he had known Minho wanted to propose. Of course he had.

The older liked to play his role, his untouchable, unreadable facade that Jeongin had continuously eased down during their relationship, but that he was still quick to build back up again when he was dealing with matters important to him.

Even though Jeongin could read him like an open book, he still entertained the prospect that he didn't notice how a huge chunk of their money suddenly vanished mysteriously, how the atmosphere at the dinner table grew somber on some days, like Minho was just waiting for an opportune time to get on his knees.

That time had never come, never a moment perfect enough to warrant a proposal from Minho, and looking back on it, regret lined Jeongin's fuzzy thoughts, regret and a deep sense of blame that filled out his entire being.

If the boy knew of the effect the ring had on him, it didn't show on his face as he slipped the piece of jewelry into his pocket, rising from the bed and causing Soonie to hiss again.

The cat was just as aware of the evil, unnatural presence as Jeongin was, goosebumps appearing on his body and the pressure on his neck increasing, smothering the pathetic excuse of the scared whimper he let out.

Once again, the desire to bolt out of the room consumed him, but the reality that he literally had nowhere to go froze him in place, made him watch how his doppelganger approached him, intentions unclear, yet dictated by the glow in his eyes.

Unnerved, Jeongin managed to take a single shaky step back, hitting the wall behind him, the cursed painting burning itself into his back, hot and unforgiving despite the ridiculousness of it.

“What do you want?”

His voice was scratchy, faint, miserable as he forced it out, and while it would have been something for this other version of him to ridicule him about, the boy didn't react at first, merely closing the distance between them until he was right in front of Jeongin.

An exact replica of himself, the same tousled dark hair, the same annoyingly child-like face, the same slightly scary expression he'd been said to have whenever he didn't smile, it was all reflected in front of him like a living mirror.

The only difference were his eyes, overshadowed by that blinding glow, going strangely out of focus, hazy, and it reminded him all too much of the event at the gallery, the way Felix hadn't seemed to really be _there._

Felix...

 _Had_ he ever been there? Or was he...?

His mind reeled at the thought and he nearly doubled over at the sudden nausea crawling up his throat, but he didn't get to dwell on it as the boy in front of him suddenly grasped his shoulder painfully firm.

The touch was electricity sent through every single fiber of himself, both in the physical and mental sense, his mind actually shutting off for a moment, leaving him floundering and wide-eyed, the briefest period of complete vulnerability in which he couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't _feel_.

The imminent danger, the deathly cold touch, the strong grip on his shoulder, it all escaped his reach, took a backseat to the floaty feeling of detachment, and as such, his mind didn't register what was happening until it was already too late.

Despite there being a wall behind him, the hard shove against his shoulder had him tumbling backwards, right into a hot, scorching void that immediately attacked him from all sides, distorting his vision into an ugly mix of vibrant red and muddled black.

He couldn't see anything besides the mush of color, couldn't hear anything besides the roar of the flames, couldn't feel anything besides the emptiness that surrounded him and couldn't think of anything besides the scene that played in front of his inner eye like a film conjured by his twisted mind.

_It wasn't Jeongin's first time winning the yearly competition with his work, nor did he think it would be the last, but there was something different about the way the crowd in front of him buzzed with excitement and awe._

_The city made a big deal out of these competitions, choosing the best artist each year and awarding them with luxurious prizes, yet the stakes this year had been set particularly high, including a scholarship that gave them allowance to stay in Seoul, the capital of the country that was known for being home to great artists, for three to five years at the expense of the state._

_It was an idea that had been picked up by the monarchs that ruled Europe, an opportunity most artists couldn't pass up on, for it was an immense honor to live in Seoul alongside skillful, creative and like-minded souls._

_Everyone had desired to get a chance to prove themselves, putting their blood, sweat and tears into their creations, so Jeongin could understand the distaste that hovered heavily in the hall, as baseless and petty as he thought it was._

_It was disguised under a fragile facade of polite applause, only serving to agitate him as he stepped up to the podium, feeling dozens of envious stares following him._

_One in particular bordered on vicious, hateful, and he knew exactly that it belonged to the boy with the long black hair, the boy who had taken third place._

_Right after him and Felix, who was probably Jeongin's closest friend in the art community._

_He knew the black haired boy fancied neither him nor Felix, so having the two of them exceed him in this frivolous, one-sided rivalry must have been a hit to his pride as an artist._

_His work was simply deemed too grim, too eerie for the likes of people yearning to lose themselves in fantastical motives or peaceful landscapes, and while it was unfair favoritism at the end of the day, Jeongin didn't speak up about it._

_Neither did anyone else, for those who profit from a circumstance always choose to keep silent._

_So granted, he accepted the scholarship he was given, the praise and jealousy alike in which he wallowed long after the ceremony had drawn to a close, long after everyone had congratulated him, including Felix who still seemed awfully happy for having missed his chance at a scholarship by a hair's breadth._

“ _Aren't you jealous that I won? You know, like everyone else?”_

_Maybe it was an obvious jab, maybe some cruel, arrogant need to hammer home his victory or maybe it was truly just curiosity, but it didn't matter._

_Felix merely smiled, oblivious to any underlying messages as he cleaned up the hall like the rest of them, the curious onlookers having already gone home and leaving the young artists to get the hall in top shape again._

_It was a regular, expected work from them._

“ _Nah, I didn't participate because I wanted the scholarship”, Felix admitted, and Jeongin caught a few artists looking up from their work, among them the black haired boy._

_There was a raging, dangerous fire in his eyes, deep-rooted resentment feeding into the darkest parts of himself._

_He obviously didn't appreciate the comment._

“ _I simply did it for fun.”_

“ _I lost to someone who participated **for fun**?”, the black haired boy snarled, his tone of voice wiping Felix's smile off his face at once and replacing it with a frown._

_Jeongin knew he didn't do well with hate that was thrown his way, especially if it was unfounded, but before he could say something, the boy turned around and stormed out of the hall, leaving only a silent threat that Jeongin could pick up on, but didn't know what to do about._

_Until he read the newspaper a few weeks later._

_**Artist found dead.** _

Jeongin startled out of his remembrance just in time to see a flash erupting around him, the blinding light forcing him to shut his eyes as the floaty feeling from before suddenly vanished, leaving him to plunge into endless nothingness.

Losing himself along with his grip on reality, he tried to scream, yet to his horror, no sound came out, the realization drowning him in a rush of despair and helplessness as he fell deeper and deeper.

It could have been a mere fragment of a second or an eternity, the flow of time disrupted and measured only by the frantic beats of his heart, but the next time he opened his eyes, it was to a high stone ceiling and Minho's worried face.

The older was talking, his mouth moving in rapid, panicked fashion, but no words reached Jeongin's ears, just the hollow silence present beneath the sea.

His vision shifted uncomfortably, the light in the room too gaudy for him to get used to, but even before he took in the stone walls, the simple wooden bed or the medieval style décor, he could immediately fathom where he was.

Gasping for air that wouldn't come to him and wasn't needed anymore, he attempted to push himself up, a feat that proved harder than should be possible, Minho carefully helping him while still mumbling incoherent, soundless words.

Jeongin could decipher the emotions running through the older; the raw terror, the bottomless confusion, the fearful and yet seething epiphany of their situation all mirrored on his face, but there was no sound to accompany any of it.

He could imagine the questions Minho was asking right now, though he would never find himself able to answer, and that in itself was answer enough.

He swayed a little on his feet once he was standing, the push and pull of this realm differing vastly from that he had known all his life, but he managed to get over to the marble balcony, frustratedly ripping apart the embroidered patterns on the curtains in the process.

His steps made no noise, his breaths drowned in the canvas and once again, the scream that left his lips was hauntingly soundless, the desperation tangible to no one but himself.

From outside, he could see intimidating, pointed towers protruding from the castle they were in, looming over the jaggy, rocky terrain and the few trees that populated it.

The entire structure overlooked a city in the distance, merely a few faint lights giving away that it was inhabited, but Jeongin knew they would never be able to reach it anyway.

The sky above was the darkest shade of cloudy grey he could imagine, depressing and heavy looking as it hung over the imposing castle like a cruel, imminent omen that would never go away, for it was eternalized on a canvas as exactly that.

Chest heaving, Jeongin tried to keep the useless tears in that pricked at the corner of his eyes, fully aware that no amount of crying would ever get him out of here, but the misery crested and spilled over anyway, having him melt into Minho's arms.

There was no comfort, no love, no emotion in the way he was held, though this was hardly Minho's fault, for paint didn't have feelings to give except those interpreted into it.

The tears that rolled down his cheeks were neither hot nor cold for that very same reason and he didn't feel the touch when Minho caressed his face softly, nor did he feel when the older turned his head so Jeongin could look at the balcony next to theirs.

He wasn't really surprised to see Felix standing there, looking absolutely miserable with tear tracks on his face and dark shadows permanently etched under his eyes, but that didn't stop him from crying even more aggressively.

Not that anyone heard it.

Not that anyone would hear it ever again.

It wasn't rare for Jeongin to bring paintings to Changbin's gallery.

Even though the frequency had decreased a little ever since his second year of university, the younger still brought in his works every now and then to have them displayed in the gallery.

Normally, his paintings radiated calm serenity, happiness or love, the color palette he preferred being rather warm and lovely, filled with positive memories and hopes for a bright future.

“ _The end of suffering, the beginning of joy and the hope for eternity”_ , Jeongin had once described his style as an artist and Changbin fully agreed, which was why he was so perplexed when the younger entered the gallery with one of the most grim paintings he had ever seen.

“Did you draw this?”

Jeongin seemed different today from all the other times Changbin had seen him, but he couldn't put his finger on the eerie feeling reigning strong in his mind.

He was looking at Jeongin, yet at the same time, he felt like this was a complete stranger.

“I started it”, the younger explained, his words like a wall of pretend he chose to hide behind. Changbin didn't like the way he guarded his words. “And a _friend_ finished it for me.”

Disdain dripped from his voice, perfectly concealed behind a pleasant mask, but the flickering of something in his eyes gave him away.

Changbin knew there was more to the story.

He accepted the painting anyway, the weight of it resting heavily in his arms, and his chest constricted, a clammy feeling settling into his body at the pure iciness radiating off the thing.

He didn't like it.

The depiction was of a medieval style castle on a hill, looking rather ominous and dreary, with the only sources of light stemming from two lit windows.

“Is this friend alright with having the painting in my gallery?”, Changbin carefully asked, grasping at straws not to offend Jeongin by outrightly expressing his discomfort in owning the artwork.

He usually didn't mind pentimenti – after all they were art just like every other painting was – and yet, something about this one had a shiver running down his back.

He could tell that Jeongin was aware of his creeped out state, though the younger didn't comment on it, a slight grin curling his lip up instead.

“Oh, don't worry, I'll go talk to my friend about it right now. After all, I have some—“

He broke off, seemingly musing about his choice of phrasing in a manner that seemed playful and sadistic at the same time, a combination that didn't suit Jeongin.

“—some _unfinished business_ to take care of.”

A lamp flickered somewhere above Changbin, the irregular pattern of light and dark drawing shapes on the ground, and he looked up in irritation, scrutinizing whether the bulb needed changing while trying to wrap his head around the uncomfortable, jumpy feeling in his stomach.

Something was wrong.

Dangerously so.

Jeongin swiftly turned around, one last fleeting glance over his shoulder sending a jolt of electricity through Changbin's body, but he didn't connect the dots.

Not even as Jeongin recited his favorite quote in a weirdly haunting, _dead_ voice, a memento to a time long since gone, yet never quite forgotten and certainly not forgiven.

“ _In every work of art, the artist himself is present.”_


End file.
